


kiss the germaphobe

by orphan_account



Series: Carve your place in my heart [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Human Disaster Miya Atsumu, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Kiyoomi kisses like it’s a new kung-fu move he’s mastered overnight, with too much force and too much teeth and very little compassion for his partner’s own comfort.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Carve your place in my heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660912
Comments: 8
Kudos: 321





	kiss the germaphobe

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of a serie so I suggest to first read part number one for a clearer reading.
> 
> Mind the reading -> if you want to avoid the mature sexual content you can just skip this part:
> 
> from: "Kiyoomi hums and Atsumu is glad because...." to: "afterwards...they lay side by side, not touching"

The months that follow Atsumu’s epiphany seem to fly before his own eyes and slip between his fingers, leaving him to watch in awe as the circle he and Kiyoomi insisted on walking around, becomes narrower and narrower. In between practice they come closer on a more personal level, stepping over boundaries Atsumu thought would take years to pull down, but instead only needed a good, old talk and time for Kiyoomi to absorb all the little changes in his comfort zone.

In this time Atsumu learns what a comfort zone is. Those invisible lines Kiyoomi drew around himself that make him say _don’t touch me_ or _don’t step closer_ , and it’s not a brick wall like he had imagined, but more of an elastic bubble that can be flexed and moulded by the inside to accommodate little changes per time -Atsumu isn’t little nor discreet but he is trying _hard._

They now have patterns that allow them to find comfort in each other whereas before they clashed and pushed like the identical poles of two magnets.

Atsumu discovers that Kiyoomi’s doesn’t mind him disrupting his revered shrine -that really is just a cleanly styled apartment of average size- as long as he doesn’t have to be the other way around. Atsumu’s own studio apartment, with the month worth of dirty dishes piled in the sink and clothes stacked on the foot of the bed and spare chair, looks like the scene of a fruitless robbery in comparison and he would die of shame if Kiyoomi had to witness what his natural habitat looks like.

He now has his own set of clean, thick socks waiting for him in the entrance, his own set of fluffy towels in the bathroom and a rack with his personal cleaning tools -half of which he still doesn’t know the purpose of, like the doll sized brush that Kiyoomi said is used to clean your feet, which part of your feet he didn’t say- in the shower and a new toothbrush occupies the only empty corner of the sink, the one that wasn’t crammed with bottles and tubes labelled in languages Atsumu couldn’t even start to comprehend.

One night, Kiyoomi had fetched a spare futon possibly out of nowhere, dropping it unceremoniously in the farthest corner of his bedroom. It had been raining like hell outside, Atsumu complaining he would catch a cold or slip and die in a hallway _and it would have been all Omi-kun’s cold-heartedness fault_.

He hadn’t complained when Atsumu obnoxiously pushed the mattress all the way beside Kiyoomi’s queen-sized bed, huffing a “brat _”_ before closing himself into the bathroom for his forty-five minutes worthy of skin-care routine.

Physical contact still remains a big incognita in their new and unexpected arrangement, but Atsumu is slowly learning how to recognize all the small factors that give Kiyoomi away and file them in his brain under two categories: the known territory they had already explored and were comfortable with, and the unknown or -still- forbidden territory or the one that made Kiyoomi stutter and freeze, his body stiff and his eyes bright with something akin to panic or dull and far away. The latter always scared Atsumu the most.

Every new thing he uncovers -and it always feels terrific and beautiful, to peel off another little piece of the artfully styled shell Kiyoomi had fit around himself- is safely and carefully stored in the spot near his left ventricle that’s reserved to Kiyoomi only.

Still, for how careful Atsumu tries to be, his eagerness and confidence made him misstep more than once.

\- -

The first time Atsumu tried to kiss Kiyoomi there was Kiyoomi’s irritating facemask between them -Atsumu couldn’t put into words how much he hated those masks. It was visceral and irrational, but he would have chomped his own feet to see that sulky face every day without it being covered most of the time.

They were at Kiyoomi’s place, both freshly showered with hair dripping wet on the tiled bathroom floor. Kiyoomi was intent on cleaning the shower stall and sink like he always did after Atsumu used them, still not trusting him to be as thoroughly and reserve the same efficiency and insistence to every little corner like he did.

Atsumu had been captivated by a small droplet of water hanging precariously off the curled end of one jet black strand, before it fell and glided down the square of exposed, sharply cut jaw and he had been hit with the overwhelming need to _lick_ the droplet away, hook his fingers in the fabric to uncover the pale skin laying underneath, see if it tasted as bitter as he had imagined.

He had dived in without thinking much of it, when he really should have, to at least spare himself from the embarrassment and pain that followed.

But he didn’t.

It was awkward and the facemask covering Kiyoomi’s mouth didn’t smell like his fruity shampoo nor taste any better and Atsumu should have known better than to let his body take the lead -like when he firstly held a volleyball, sure that he could spike it, because at that time slamming balls around looked like the _coolest_ _thing_ _ever_ , only for it to bounce on the wall of his room and hit him straight in the face- because when he did, things tended to just boomerang back and slam into him at full force.

Literally.

Atsumu sported a black eye the next day at practice, small reminder of where Kiyoomi’s elbow had hit him in his rush to put something -his hands in that case- between them.

It stung and he almost had an internal panic attack because Kiyoomi’s elbows where _pointy_ and he had just jammed one in his eye and he might lose his sight forever and never be able to set a ball and be banned by the volleyball court-

But then Kiyoomi gently pressed an ice pack to his swelling eye and cheekbone, a grim look pinching his eyebrows together and he barely avoided to pump his fist in the air because Kiyoomi was deliberately touching him, large hand tilting Atsumu’s face up so he could see the extend of the damage.

When the muscles in Atsumu’s neck started aching because of the not-so-ideal angle it was bent in, Kiyoomi asked, “are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance? It looks gross”.

He broke away then, blabbering and spluttering.

“I don’t need a freakin’ ambulance”, he grumbled, “ ‘s probably gonna be just a black eye. Don’t worry yer pretty head so much, I grew up with a brute for twin, I can handle this much pain jus’ fine”, he finished as a tear slid down his cheek.

Kiyoomi looked at him sceptically, then smacked the now-melted ice pack into his skull and said, “then do it yourself”, and left to change his facemask and resume cleaning the floor.

Hunched on his heels he had pressed a hand on the spots under his jaw where Kiyoomi’s fingers had gripped the soft skin and swallowed around the lump in his throat. They still felt burning hot even hours later and Atsumu checked in the bathroom mirror, door locked closed behind him, for any red, fingertip-shaped mark.

There were none, but he still pressed his second ice pack there when Kiyoomi wasn’t looking.

\- -

“Say Omi-Omi, what do you think of _onigiris”_ , Atsumu’s words, as most of his actions did, come completely unannounced and out of contest.

They are standing some feet away from the entrance of a supermarket, angled away from the flow of passer-byes. Atsumu has a popsicle he had previously plucked out of his shopping bag, in his mouth, ignoring how Kiyoomi looked at him like he was the spawn of the devil, spitted out of hell to upset people by eating frozen flavoured water in midwinter.

People didn’t understand how better eating popsicles in winter was anyway, they didn’t melt and you didn’t have to rush to eat them before they became sweet and sticky water in your hands -only psychopath bit through their popsicles and he wasn’t his brother, thank you very much!

Kiyoomi sends a glare his way, brow scrunching up in the vain attempt to guess what and where Atsumu was getting at this time. He wrinkles his nose when Atsumu slides the treat out of his mouth with a loud ‘pop’, then carefully asks back, “what about them?”

“I’m sure ya don’t like them, don’t’ya?”, he slurrs, “It’s because of the _hands_ , isn’t it, and ya don’t like hands or stuff done with hands”.

Kiyoomi sniffles and stays quiet.

After two minutes he mumbles, “I don’t see why this is important”, his face buried under the massive bulge of his scarf. Atsumu finishes his popsicle and throws wrapper and stick in the nearest bin.

“I dunno” he lies while gazing at the dark sky above them, a plane passes by silently, a tiny moving, blinking dot, and he follows its path until it slid out of his field of vision.

As they step deeper into their relationship Atsumu’s found himself having a hard time trying to control his hunger for _more_. He always had the irrational need to tread in front of everyone, to be that step ahead and still when he was, he wouldn’t feel satisfied. His mother always told him he and Osamu where insatiable, but whereas his brother craved endlessly amounts of food, he longed towards something more complex and ideal.

And right now, that raw desire kept growing uncontrollably, only for it to be directed at something -volleyball, skills, the power to control the people standing on his side of the net-, but at someone who was maybe the most unreachable person Atsumu had ever met.

A car honks in the distance and his mind slides back into reality, his eyes slowly refocus on his surroundings, people passing by unaware on anybody but themselves, the snail like pace of cars stuck in traffic, the cold air biting at his exposed face.

Beside him Kiyoomi brings his hands to his mouth, blowing on them to warm the dry skin -Atsumu wonders how effective that is, seeing he’s wearing his usual facemask and a scarf that engulfs most of his lower features. He isn’t wearing gloves, their absence being one of the reasons behind their small trip to the supermarket, and Atsumu finds himself staring.

At first glance they look like the hands of a pianist, thin skin under which sprang lean muscles and corded tendons, pointy knuckles and long, bony fingers.

But looking closer, trained eyes like Atsumu’s own could easily detect all the little flaws that made those hands the more unique. The reddened and dry patch of skin over his knuckles that wouldn’t soften despite the abundant layers of lotion Kiyoomi rubbed over it every day. The too long beds of his nails with the chipped cuticles he picked at whenever he was nervous or lost in his thoughts, before realizing his actions and being subsequently disgusted.

Atsumu had spent more time than it was sane staring at those hands, observing and absorbing every detail with an almost obsessive hunger. The occasions in which he had held or touched them could be counted on the digits of one hand -the casual brush when they were cooking dinner together, the time they went jogging and Kiyoomi pulled him away from an incoming biker he hadn’t noticed, the handshake at a formal team meeting- but those times he did, he felt so transfixed that he’d ended up being the first one to retract, too conscious of the eyes staring at him, not giving anything away while he felt like he was an open book under the merciless blow of the wind.

But he remembers vividly how they would fit in his wider palms, how his thumb, if folded, would cover the mole on the back of Kiyoomi’s left hand, how the calloused pads of fingers would feel and drag on the back of his arm, leaving burning trails behind that would linger throughout the day, making him all the more ravenous. How the pungent smell of disinfectant and nytril would stick on them, the soft scent of his favourite lotion -the green tea one he had seen him buy- barely concealing it.

Atsumu found himself being weirdly fixated on those hands, enough to pull an all-nighter bundled under his duvet, eyes glued to the screen of his phone where a video of some girl getting her manicure done was playing, to see if it stirred something inside him like the sight of those large, spindly fingers did. It didn’t.

When he put down the phone his eyes felt like they had shrivelled inside their sockets and he laid wondering if a hand fetish could apply to only one set of hands.

“You’re being unusually quiet”, Kiyoomi’s voice brings all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession, but he’s looking at Atsumu with sharp eyes, which translates to _are you ok_ in standard human phrasing.

“I too, sometimes, experience a thought, Omi-Omi, it just happens to us human beings”, he makes sure to put as much sass as he can in his tone.

“Don’t be a brat”, Kiyoomi warns him, then he adds “we should probably get going before you catch something, you aren’t even wearing a scarf”.

“It wouldn’t go with the outfit, Omi-Omi”, he explains receiving a shrivelling glower back that said _if you get sick I’m leaving you in a dumpster._

“Fuck you”.

“Go die”.

After five minutes of silence, in which Atsumu had all the time to distress himself even further because he’s still thinking of Kiyoomi’s hands touching him and Kiyoomi’s lips over his and how much he wants _more_ of that and how it feels like too much and _not_ _enough._ Because every time he stands near the other the blood under his skin boils and he aches for how much he wants to touch him and be touched by him.

“I don’t know what you are thinking, but I’m sure you’re wrong”, Atsumu raises an eyebrow at him, showing both incredulousness and challenge, and Kiyoomi huffs like _he_ is being the difficult one.

So he tells him that, “don’t look at me like I’m the one being all cryptic and stuff, ya sound like one of those shady guys in thriller movies”.

Kiyoomi sends him a deadpan stare, “you spent three months avoiding me and acting like you had one, big secret that everyone was trying to get out of you “, his voice sounds deadpan too, “and I am the weird one?”

“I’ve got no secrets! I’m the one that confessed to yer sorry ass!”, a passer-by looks at him weirdly before picking up his pace and disappearing from sight. “Yer weirder than me”, he adds, voice small and sulking.

Kiyoomi stops and sidesteps a group of teens, sending him a glare that says _I know that you did and it just makes you look more stupid_ from above their heads.

“What I’m trying to say”, he resumes as he starts walking again, “is that until you _tell_ me I can’t know whatever it’s bothering you. Remember the talk we had on the couch?”, and Atsumu remembered it very well, because Kiyoomi had placed under his eyes all the reasons why he had been an idiot and a coward who ran away from _the boyfriend he had confessed to_ instead of just talking about stuff like civilized adults. For three months.

He can feel Kiyoomi’s eyes burning on the side of his face and he hopes the warm feeling in his cheeks will pass as the cold bite of the wind and not his embarrassment showing. When they finally reach Kiyoomi’s flat, Atsumu feels like he’s going to combust any moment now.

He takes in a big gulp of air and says, “what if-“, hypothesis were better, _what if I wanted to touch you_ , they didn’t make him sound as helpless and starved as he felt, “ _what if_ I wanted to touch you _more_ ”.

He grasps the hem of his jacket if only to stop his hands from shaking. His hands never shook, he was a setter and from the control he had over his hands depended everything, but right now they’re trembling so hard he thinks he can hear the bones rattle. 

He can’t bear to look up, an invisible yoke heaving on his neck and pushing _down_. He hasn’t felt like this since the time he was twelve and Osamu left him alone at a school gathering and he had to close himself in a bathroom not to have a panic attack in front of what at the time felt like a thousand strangers. But he wasn’t a kid anymore and he hadn’t had an anxiety attack in ages and he wasn’t getting one now, not in front of the only person he cared to think he still had some dignity left.

“I think you should come up”, Kiyoomi’s voice brings him back to reality like he just dropped a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. He blinks at him, one, twice, Kiyoomi snorts and makes his way to the building entrance, keeping the door open for him.

\- -

One shower and a new pair of socks later, they find themselves sitting in the living room -Kiyoomi had kicked him behind the knee when he had firstly made his way to the couch, saying _don’t you dare rub your dirty clothes over my furniture_ as explanation to his low act-, crammed in the space between the couch and the low coffee table, Kiyoomi having spread out on the parquet a sheet for them to lay on. Atsumu is thankful for the furniture enclosing them, small spaces always made him feel safer, like the bottom bunk in his and Osamu’s bedroom back at home.

And now that Kiyoomi is sitting on his knees beside him, dark eyes peeking at something on his phone, Atsumu really feels like his life is at stake.

As he tries to remember the words of that one petition to the Gods his grandmother had made him learn by heart when he was young, the lit screen of a phone is placed under his nose, an unnamed note folder opened on it. He reads the words “outercourse” and “foreplay” and proceeds to wrench the device out of Kiyoomi’s hand and slam it, screen down, on the couch seat, skin scorching hot from his neck up to the tips of his ears.

Kiyoomi blinks at him, eyebrows raised and face lax and it’s the most natural expression Atsumu has maybe ever seen on him and it’s just _unfair_ given the situation.

“I thought you wanted to do that”, and Atsumu really, really doesn’t want to think about how self-conscious he sounds, or how his eyes avert his own and keep skimming around the room.

“Yes! But-“, he wheezes searching for words when his mind is failing him, looped in an endless spiral of images of Kiyoomi and him and a bed and the words “outercourse” and “foreplay” flashing in neon lights, and Atsumu just hides his face in his hands and _keens,_ because fuck he’s getting hot all over. How humiliating.

“Don’t make that sound ever again”. Atsumu makes it again, _louder_ and peers between his fingers to see Kiyoomi with his eyes closed, a faint pink dusting his pale cheekbones, a muscle twitches in his jaw and he has his sweatpants clasped in his fists, knuckles white.

And _oh_.

Atsumu beams and shouts “Omi-Omi-kun” before he gets a mouthful of sheets and Kiyoomi’s stormed off to some quieter and cooler area of the house.

Later Kiyoomi cuts them some veggies to munch on with rice and eggs while Atsumu wipes down the small table set some feet away from the kitchen counter. When they sit down, he ignores the first bowl with the colourful and thinly cur raw vegetables and dives into his food, table manners forgotten -or never learned.

He then brings out the spare futon and drops it beside his bed, letting Atsumu borrow one of his loosest shirts and sweats, saying he will burn them in acid afterwards -he never does, he instead washes them and folds them on a corner of his wardrobe. The pants fit snugly around his tights and he makes sure to show that off as he plants himself on the countertop near the sink, careful not to topple any bottle down.

As they both wash their teeth, Atsumu rinsing his mouth first because Kiyoomi just takes so long trying to scrub over every single white tooth, he takes his time to just stare at the other, feet kicking and fingers drumming on the marble surface. He’ll always marvel at how Kiyoomi’s gums don’t bleed even once with the force he puts into the brushing and his skin looks so soft for someone so harshly spoken and his forehead so smooth for someone that frowns so much.

Atsumu puckers his lips and says “kiss me”.

Kiyoomi looks at him, eyebrows twitching and says “no”.

Kiyoomi turns off the lights the moment they both lay down -for how many times Atsumu had tried to keep him awake with meaningless chatters or trashy videos on his phone, he always fell asleep incredibly fast, or feigned it very well- and all of all sudden the lit screen of a phone gets once again placed under his nose, the brilliance of it stabbing Atsumu’s sensitive eyes.

“Damn, did anyone ever taught you how to lower yer brightness? This should be illegal!”, he squeaks as he taps on the phone to bring the lighting to the minimum setting possible.

The growled demand of “just read it for fuck’s sake” comes from the ambiguously shaped lump on the mattress above him. Atsumu does and when he’s finished, he tosses the device back, hearing it thump against something soft, a low groan that sounds a lot like “asshole” breaking the silence of the room.

When he closes his eyes the hunting images of faceless beings having _intercourses_ with masks, gloves and hell, a whole space suit flash before his eyes, making him want to just pluck them out and place them on the floor beside him.

Kiyoomi keeps a note with all the physical and possibly sexual stuff he would agree to try out. Kissing isn’t pinned down.

They don’t speak of it the morning after.

\- -

Nor do they speak of it on their way home after practice and it’s been a while since Atsumu has gone straight home without dropping by Kiyoomi’s house. He showers and changes his socks and it’s only when he is cooking himself some dinner that he notices that there are no small potted plants on the shelves and no neatly stacked sport magazines at the end of the counter and no creepy maneki neko figurine beside the stove. The television isn’t humming from the living room, set on low volume just playing as background, because he doesn’t even own a television.

He’d forgotten how much loving someone hurts. When he and Osamu moved away from each other it took him months to get used to the loneliness and the silence of his new apartment. At first, he only fell asleep on the floor by the bed because he couldn’t bear the empty space hovering over him. Because _he_ _wasn’t_ _there anymore._

Atsumu bangs his head on the countertop, moaning softly because he is _fucked._

_\- -_

They don’t speak of it the following day, but Kiyoomi sends him a message telling him to come over and to bring clean clothes with him and something about _having all that we need at home_ that sends blood rushing away from his head and south so fast that Atsumu feels faint. He stuffs two pair of clean boxers in his duffel bag for good measures.

\- -

Today is their day off, still Atsumu takes his sweet time and arrives at Kiyoomi’s house well into the afternoon. Before he has the time to turn back and walk yet another time around the whole building, the door opens and Kiyoomi’s fluffy head pokes out.

“You’re late”, he says and his voice is low and soft while his eyebrows accuse him.

Atsumu strolls inside dripping fake confidence. “I’ve never said when I would come, were ya waiting for me, Omi-kun?”, he makes sure to sound extra bratty but he stumbles while taking off his shoes.

“Go take a shower”, Kiyoomi’s voice carries through the apartment as he moves away.

“But I already did”. There’s silence and Atsumu thinks he maybe hasn’t heard him.

“Then take another”

What follows is the usual routine of showering and putting on clean socks and brushing his teeth and before he knows it, he is alone in Kiyoomi’s bedroom with Kiyoomi and there are condoms -so many condoms- and gloves and a huge bottle of water-based lube on the futon by the bed.

Kiyoomi guides him there and makes him sit down with a hard press to the shoulder that sends his brain on short circuit and the filter to his mouth is gone.

“So we’re doing it forreal. Here I taught you would chicken out, Omi-Omi”, his words slur and he scoops back on the mattress so Kiyoomi won’t tower over him as much as before, he’s never realised how freaking _huge_ he is.

“Shut up”, his voice is echoed by the snap of the nytrils gloves as he puts them on and it really looks like the scene of a cheap horror movie with the crazy surgeon and the moron that got himself caught.

“Can you try and look a bit more lively, Omi-Omi? I’m trying to get in the mood, ya know?”

Kiyoomi hums and Atsumu is glad because he is sure he would have said something like _aren’t you always_ or _need some pictures of hands -_ and no he didn’t, _couldn’t_ know about that- and passes him a pair of gloves.

Then he asks, “can I sit in your lap?” and Atsumu sticks his thumb in the glove the wrong way.

He swallows down the _yes, God_ that threatens to tear his way out of his throat. “This some kinda dream of yours, huh?”

Kiyoomi sniffles -and he does that a lot and Atsumu is starting to think it’s because he’s _embarrassed-_ and then plops down on Atsumu’s outstretched thighs with his whole weight, which is no joke. Air gets punched out of him and suddenly Kiyoomi’s face is so close to his own and _yeah, he loves that pout so much_ –“ya look so ugly up close”.

There’s silence then, Kiyoomi slowly raises an eyebrow then moves just so on his knees and _oh, he’s hard_ and Kiyoomi can probably feel it too and -that’s so lame. He hangs his head and hopes to disappear because this is not himself, he doesn’t get stage freight like this.

“You get flustered very easily”, Kiyoomi says with his monotone voice and one of his gloved fingers drags on the skin of Atsumu’s cheek, “and very red”.

Atsumu bristles, “I ain’t _red_ , you asshole, you’re the one who doesn’t even know what sunlight is, ya and yer waxy ass”.

He tries to dislodge him from his lap, planting his talons on the futon for leverage and using his leg’s strength to turn them over, but Kiyoomi clamps his own thighs harder and leans forward taking advantage of the fact Atsumu upper body is kept upright only by his core muscles -his hands he realizes later, are clasped on the edge of Kiyoomi’s horrible greenish sweater. They end up sprawled on the bed, Atsumu flat on his back, Kiyoomi sitting more forward on his abdomen, all but crushing his stomach.

“If ya don’t move”, he wheezes, “I’m gonna throw up”.

Kiyoomi looks at him like he just sneezed in his face and says, “don’t you _dare_ ” as he scrambles back on his hands and knees.

They rearrange themselves so that Atsumu’s back is propped on the side of Kiyoomi’s bed, said man once again comfortably seated in his lap.

“Alright now, how ya planning on doing this- I mean what stuff do ya wanna try?”

Kiyoomi looks past his shoulder to the device abandoned on the bed and Atsumu prays he won’t open the stupid folder and pick something like it was the stupid menu of a stupid restaurant.

“‘Cuz I gotta ideas if ya don’t”, he offers, even if he would go along with anything right now, he’s not picky.

“I stay on top”, Kiyoomi’s voice had the same serious edge it took when he goes shopping and all but mentally abuses the unlucky clerk on shift. Atsumu’s had the peculiar chance to observe it more than once now, but he still finds it one of the most terrifying experiences ever.

“Anything else?”, he hates that he’s glad that his voice sounds soft and careful, because right now he feels like there’s a very big, very heavy and very scared cat on his lap and Atsumu has never been good with animals, they always preferred Osamu because he gave them food while they only scratched him or bit him or tried to gauge his eyes out.

“You can touch me over my clothes”, he relents pensively, then adds “don’t kiss me”.

“Roger that”.

So the first thing Atsumu does is run his hands up Kiyoomi’s legs, slowly, from the knees up to the dip of his hips, ignoring how the fabric catches on the gloves, and it earns him a whole body shudder and he fears it’s too much, but then Kiyoomi makes a sound and it’s strangled but it seems to vibrate through all his body. Atsumu wonders if someone has ever touched him like this.

“Hey, you like that, huh”, his thumbs rub small circles on the jut of his hipbones and he can see Kiyoomi’s hand twitching where they lay beside his legs.

“You can touch me too, ya know, not gonna complain”, he already sounds out of breath but he can’t help it when he feels so warm, and his clothes are so hot and Kiyoomi looks so good with his lips parted and eyes closed, probably too overwhelmed by the small friction of cloth on skin and the pressure and intent behind those touches. God, he wants to ruin him.

Kiyoomi picks up his arms and runs his fingers through his hair, catching on the gelled strands and tugging slightly.

“You put too much stuff on them”, he says as he keeps petting his head, one hand slipping down to cup his nape and it’s a welcome and anchoring weight.

“They won’t stay put if I don’t”, Kiyoomi hums in response then drives Atsumu’s head to his chest and Atsumu goes like his bones and muscles had melted under his skin. He presses his face to Kiyoomi’s sternum, his arms coming up to embrace his back and pull him closer. He can’t quite breath right and he feels sweat pooling on his nape -where Kiyoomi’s hand is still holding tight-, at his hairline and on the hollows of his elbows, and it’s suffocatingly _hot_ but Kiyoomi has a hand splayed between his shoulder blades and their erections are pressing on one another and _Kiyoomi is hard too._

He breaths in hard, the fruity smell of shampoo and skin and sweat because Kiyoomi is hot too and is probably having it worse than him, and a low groan breaks from deep within him mirrored by a quieter one just above his head. They still haven’t kissed, they barely touch and they spend most of the time pissing each other off, but Atsumu’s chest feels like it wants to crack open enough to fit Kiyoomi whole inside.

“Can I-“ his throat feels like sandpaper and his tongue is fat and heavy in his mouth, “can I jack you off?”

“Take the condoms”, Kiyoomi sounds as bad as him and looks maybe worse, he blinks several times to get sweat out of his eyes and leans back on his calves breaking the embrace and it’s suddenly so cold. Atsumu gulps, one, two times and rubs a hand on his forehead before the words reach his brain and he says “huh, yeah one second”. He turns around and reaches back on the bed, cussing softly when he hears the bottle of lubricant hit the floor, when he retrieves everything -bottle and condoms and sanitary wipes that he sets aside for later- and settles back he almost chokes on his spit at the sight above him. Kiyoomi has his eyes squeezed shut, head tilted so his chin rests on his chest and a hand shoved inside his pants, gripping his erection in a deadly tight grip, tiny twists of his wrist barely visible among the loose bunch of his sweats. If he died now then god -or most likely the devil- would welcome him with a pat to the shoulder because he had made the stone-faced, frigid Sakusa Kiyoomi _want_. His ego swells impossibly at the thought that _I did that_ and the lazy grin that’s taking over his features grows even wider.

“Fuck, you’re so hot, Omi-kun”.

“Be fast, I’m-“, he urges and chokes on his words or spit and just swears and Atsumu has never seen him come apart like this.

“Yeah, me too”, for once he doesn’t tease on as he holds out one condom. Then they both focus on bunching their sweats and boxers down enough for them to roll the small rubbery sheath on their equally hard erections. Atsumu catches Kiyoomi staring at him and he wiggles his hips, opening his legs a tad wider to show off. Kiyoomi pinches him on the sensitive inside of his thigh with ill-intent making him hiss and recoil.

When the shock and the pain ebb away he says, “come here”, his voice ever so soft and alien to his own ears. Kiyoomi crowds over him again and he gives a small jerk of his chin at Atsumu’s hovering open hand. He stiffens and his breath gets stuck in his chest when Atsumu circles his fingers around his erection, Atsumu studies his face but there are no hard lines around his eyes and no muscles twitching in his jaw so he strengthens his grip and Kiyoomi sags on his shoulder, a hungry sound getting past his lips and into the fabric of Atsumu’s tee.

“Breathe Omi-Omi” and it’s unfair to say that when he is heaving like he just hit a hundred serves.

“Just _do_ something” the bite behind Kiyoomi’s voice sounds like exasperation and desperation, so Atsumu moves his hand and why didn’t he do that sooner if the keen that spills out of Kiyoomi’s lips it’s what he gets for it. He jerks Kiyoomi off and the ardour of doing it feels like he is getting himself off too, thus he almost jumps out of his skin when a firm grip falls around his own hard on. He swears colourfully and bumps his head on the metal lining of the bed.

“Yes, yes, yes”. He stutters and moans and can’t even start to be ashamed of it because this is too much and not enough and he might die if he doesn’t come. He humps his hips in time with Kiyoomi’s merciless and so _deliciously_ tight strokes and he picks up the pace of his own hand when a growled warning of _don’t stop_ reaches his ears.

Suddenly something cold drizzles over his burning erection and he hisses and looks down in time to see Kiyoomi tossing the bottle of lubricant behind his shoulder. The slide of rubber on rubber is so much smoother now and Atsumu sighs at how _blissfully_ right it feels.

“Take your hand off”, Kiyoomi’s voice is low and urgent and he stutters because, “what- why?”, he whines. Kiyoomi half cusses and sneaks his hand -which is covered in lube- between his wider palm, gripping himself from under Atsumu’s own grasp. It’s perfect, Atsumu’s hand on Kiyoomi’s hand on Kiyoomi’s dick.

They keep moving into each other and against each other, following an irregular rhythm, chests and shoulders pressed together, knuckles bumping because they can’t manage and can’t care less about adjusting their movements.

“Omi-Omi”, his mouth is in the direct line of Kiyoomi’s jaw and he wants to taste it so much he could cry. “- _ngh._ Lemme kiss you”, there are hair tickling at his brow and down the slope of his nose and his guts are coiling and his abdomens are flexed taut and Kiyoomi puts his open palm there and presses down. He _whimpers_ so high he almost misses Kiyoomi’s words. “Don’t- not-”

“ _Not on the mouth_ ”, Atsumu offers, a hand grasping those flexing hips. There’s gasps and half-joked moans and the slap of skin and the rustle of clothes.

 _“Yes”_.

Atsumu runs his lips up the column of his neck to the soft skin under the straight bones of his jaw and leaves a wet, open mouthed kiss there.

“If you leave a-ah-any mark, I’m going to kill you”. Atsumu kisses his way under Kiyoomi’s ear were two small twin moles are hidden under his curls. He kisses those and carries on down to the hollow of the collarbones. He bites one prominent bone, teeth pressing deftly on the thin skin and Kiyoomi’s whole body jerks once, twice and he lets out a strangled cry.

Atsumu swears because Kiyoomi just came and is now melting on his side, chest heaving, forehead pressed on his shoulder. He bites off another cuss or moan, he doesn’t know, and humps his hips forward into Kiyoomi’s fist -that’s still squeezing and moving in those little twists that send his head in orbit- four, five times before he tumbles over the edge too.

\- -

Afterwards, when they have discarded the used condoms and gloves and wiped the worst of the mess away with sanitary wipes -the ones that don’t irritate the skin and are good for intimate regions too, Atsumu has done his homework- they lay side by side, not touching.

“We should do this more often, like every other day. No. Every day. I’m never gonna leave yer house or yer bed”, Atsumu decides staring at the ceiling above them, arms crossed behind his head. He feels a nudge on his ribs and peers sideways at Kiyoomi who is looking at him. Dark eyes and dark eyebrows and shiny skin, the apples of his cheeks are still flushed and his lips are spit-slick.

“You have high aspirations for your future”, he states mockingly then rolls off the futon and Atsumu takes it as his clue to go wash up. He gathers what he needs and disappears into the bathroom.

He steps in the shower and under the hot spray and his mind rewinds all that just happened. He’s thankful he’s so spent or else he would be hard and hot all over again and he is pretty sure today was enough exposure and fiddling with Kiyoomi’s comfort zone. When he steps out and looks in the mirror he is smiling like an idiot. He snaps a photo and sends it over to Osamu who immediately types back “you look like a fucking idiot. Don’t text me, I’m working”.

When he re-emerges from the bathroom, he finds Kiyoomi lingering where he had left him earlier, he’s staring down at the futon with power -if staring could kill the whole room would be on fire or something along that- his brows angled together projecting shadows over his eyes. He’s wearing a new pair of gloves and has a rag and a bottle of what looks like some kind of cleaning detergent in his hands.

Once Atsumu rounds the bed he sees what the problem is.

“Ops”, the stain on the futon covers all the top left corner and it looks rubbed over and soggy, “looks like that ain’t comin’ off, eh? Well, it’s yer fault this time ‘round”. Some feet away stands the culprit, the bottle of water-based lube with the cap twisted closed but half of the content’s missing.

Kiyoomi looks like he is going to murder someone -given the proximity and only presence, Atsumu himself- or tear his hair out.

“No. I’m burning it”, he sounds death serious.

Atsumu does a double take, “ya can’t burn it, ya’ll lit the whole house on fire”.

Kiyoomi looks at him like he’s dealing with a very thick-skulled child. “Not in the house”, he says calmly, too calmly, “I’ll burn it with the trash outside”.

“I’m not helping ya, Omi-Omi, that’s arson and it’s three to seven years in jail”, or so he had read somewhere.

Kiyoomi shrugs his shoulder and Atsumu moves to the living room because he really, really doesn’t want to go to jail. He cooks them dinner instead, something easy because he is not his food obsessed of a brother, but still better than the bland concoctions that Kiyoomi serves them daily. Atsumu is pretty sure he doesn’t even know what half of the seasoning jars placed on the top cupboard are, let alone what they are used for in cuisine.

When they venture back into the bedroom, the futon is nowhere to be seen and Atsumu doesn’t question it, instead he retrieves his duffel bag and the pillow he uses to sleep and jerks his thumb towards the door, “I can take the couch”.

Kiyoomi sends him a disinterested glance and says, “you’ll never fit there”, while he unfurls a sock up to his midcalf.

“Excuse me, wha-whaddya mean by that? I ain’t some kind of tree, I can fold my legs an’ stuff just fine. You are the walking wardrobe out of us, so don’t come at _my_ ass”

Kiyoomi looks at him like he is physically suffering, puts on the second sock and then stands up. He stays put for some time then he gestures stiffly towards the bed and says in an unrecognizably soft voice, “you can sleep here. But stay on your side or I’m kicking you in the balls”

Atsumu has never gotten into bed and under the covers faster.

As they lay down, Kiyoomi’s back turned to him, Atsumu draws his profile with his eyes only, the moonlight filtering through the tightly shut blinds enough for him to make out the undefined mess of curls that is Kiyoomi’s head, the sharp edges of his shoulders, softened by the duvet that he’s wrapped around himself. He closes his eyes and follows back the image like he’s putting it ink into paper, when he opens them Kiyoomi is staring at the ceiling.

Atsumu doesn’t know how he knows, but this moment feels important and his heartbeat picks up without him knowing why.

“Atsumu”, it’s so soft and how many times did he call him by his name. He teeters on the edge careful not to actually lean over and- “kiss me”.

“ _Yes”._ It feels like when you’re on a roller coaster and you reach the top of a hill and you know you are going to fall any seconds now but still, when you do, the air gets punched out of your lungs and your stomach feels empty and you didn’t expect it. Atsumu falls on Kiyoomi’s lips like that and feels all that and _more._ They kiss and kiss and kiss, small press of their lips, feather like now, then hard and long and breath-taking. When they have kissed themselves stupid, they lay down on their side again, and close their eyes.

In the middle of the night Kiyoomi rides a foot up Atsumu’s calf leaving it to rest above his ankle and Atsumu really wants to know how can someone wearing two layers of socks, still have damn cold feet.

\- -

Atsumu thinks that _that_ moment was some kind of surreal, god-sent, ultra-dimensional happening, like when you have a day where you feel like you’ve been touched by the goddess of luck herself, and everything goes as you want and then the following day is a utter disaster because karma is a bitch.

The following day isn’t a disaster or better it is because Atsumu still has to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn because someone has to do his habitual morning jog and morning stretches -he follows grumbling and whining-, it is because he still has to deal with a jerk, his boyfriend, and be one back and it is because he slips in the shower and ends up on his butt, his legs sprawled out of the shower door and instead of helping him his _boyfriend_ just smirks and snaps a photo from the door of the bathroom and leaves with a “loser”.

But it isn’t because as they argue in the kitchen over which trashy show to watch as they eat breakfast -because Kiyoomi only ever puts on replays of old volleyball matches Atsumu has seen a thousand times or boring documentaries on wildlife or _plants_ that really only succeeded in making him the more anxious about leaving Japan or his own damn house or worse in calling one Ushijima Wakatoshi to be reassured that ‘ _no, Sakusa_ , _I don’t think the specimen of plant you are describing to me exists in Japan’-_ Kiyoomi backs him against the counter and effectively shuts him up by crashing their lips together and Atsumu on the countertop.

Kiyoomi kisses like it’s a new kung-fu move he’s mastered overnight, with too much force and too much teeth -and he must wash them with razor blades because they are _sharp-_ and very little compassion for his partner’s own comfort. And contrarily to previous believes, he doesn’t taste as bitter as he should with all the venom he always spits.

He kisses like he spikes a ball and there is nothing of yesterday night in them. He angles his face so he can reach Atsumu’s mouth over the scarce inches that are their height difference, and bumps his nose in his eyes on the way down. It’s teeth and tongue and Atsumu can play this game just fine, so he reaches up with his face, with his hands that end up grasping Kiyoomi’s hair near the roots, with his whole body as he pushes back up when Kiyoomi pushes down.

As he scrambles for support behind him, restraining himself from doing something as impulsive as grabbing the hips hovering over his or worse, directly wrapping his legs around them, Atsumu’s hand catches something on the kitchen counter, toppling down the stupid _maneki neko_ that Kiyoomi loves _so_ _much_ , of all things possible.

It doesn’t shatter to the floor. Luckily. In an impressive show of fast reflexes Kiyoomi seizes it in his hand the moment it drops into the void. He puts it back down almost reverently and sends a deadly glare Atsumu’s way, sprawled on the countertop, feeling like his soul has just been sucked out of his body.

Atsumu whines for a whole week about the bruise on his hip.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two and it was born from a string of snippets and ideas i couldn't fit in the first part so i just took it and made it into a serie!  
> The dialogues were pretty hard to write, Atsumu mostly because of his slang (I'm not a native english hence if it sounds weird -I apologize)  
> Thank you for reading!


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